


Our Little Infinity

by fallingforcas



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Cancer, Fluff, Iggy is not Mickey's brother in this, M/M, Terminal Illnesses, based off book, the fault in our stars au, you'll see who he is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 20:55:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4194570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallingforcas/pseuds/fallingforcas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which, Mickey Milkovich is an pretentious asshole with a abiding love for cheap metaphors and Palahnuik's Fight Club who meets Ian Gallagher, an obscure novel addict from a house full of siblings, and occasionally lungs full of liquid. The two fall into what is not so much a story about cancer as a story about love - because everyone knows Cancer books suck. (TFIOS AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Little Infinity

**Author's Note:**

> So. I really wanted to do this!! Tell me what you think. I decided to do it in Augustus' POV because I really wanted to explore that side of the book. So, yeah. Please read and enjoy:) 
> 
> Based off the book - so pls don't think I'm taking the credit for some dialogue I use for them that is originally written by John Green:)

                                                                            “ _One lives in hope of becoming a memory.”_

_\--Antonio Porchia_

Hospitals. I really fucking hate them. Yeah, they were easy to steal drugs and other countless of medication that went flying through Southside _but_ they were overrated. To me, they were death camps, _literally._ Technically, hospitals had a strange default that I still can't get my dumb-ass head around; Through layer upon layer of floors, one old fuck could be dying in his bed while his white, sobbing wife clutched to his head, whilst a teenage boy was calling for his pompous mother, a champagne cork stuck up his ass. It was bullshit. I'm here everyday almost, being prescribed some shit-ass drugs that don't even help, and stupid offers to support groups that I obviously cannot attend. (Even if showing off my robotic leg is kinda cool.) Doctors will come and go, telling me the same shit about getting better. I am better. I just have some shitty fake leg that hardly moves when I walk.

However, family should be life, it _was_ my life because I had nothing else. I didn't need anyone else; not fuck-wit, crazy relationship that would bore the fuck out of me, nor anything else for my dad to kill my ass for. _Love?_ What was love besides a destructive, time wasting activity that caused nothing but grief on both parts. Really, I reason with myself, Love wasn't important. I didn't believe in love, nor would I believe someone would _love_ me. It was stupid. Love was stupid. 

_ Stop with the love bullshit and light up a cigarette you stupid fuck.  _

When I was thirteen my dad, a bull of raging anger and powerful fists, got sent to the can. He butchered up some failing to pay client, ended up nearly killing the guy, and got charged with attempted murder and three accounts. It was a wish, really. People would think your parents were ones to love you no matter what, protect you from the monsters under the bed; but the reality, in my fucked world, was the fact that the monsters weren't hidden under my bed, or in my closet, they were in the form of my father. 

I was already sick when he went to jail; no one really noticed  _ but  _ Mandy. I was out on a run, being chased by some fucks with a truck full of guns. On my part, I was able to take them down, one by one with my fists inspired by my fathers rage, but my leg didn't follow. Fucking stupid leg. It buckled beneath me, like a bag of bricks, and I can only remember tumbling to the ground like some pussy, waiting for my head to get kicked in. Blackouts were a beautiful thing; they reminded me of passing out after a whole bottle of Jacks, then again, they lasted longer and occurred more frequently than they should. Not that I cared. 

That's when I first met Iggy, sitting on chairs in the middle of some brisk, white hospital that smelt of the elderly and birthing pools, both with drips stuck into our skin, injecting us with some messed up drug that they  _ believed  _ would help – it didn't take the pain out of my hip. Fuckers. Iggy had that dirty blonde hair that I knew chicks would die for, with one blue eye and the other rather glassy. That's when I noticed it wasn't real. This guy was fucking blind in one eye. At thirteen I thought that shit was the coolest thing on Earth. Robotic eye? That's almost as good as a robotic leg. 

Iggy hadn't been bothered to look down at my branded wristband –  _ Mickey Milkovich, Osteosarcoma.  _ He didn't life, nor did he scowl upwards with his one eye, he just scoffed, nodding his head as if he was dealing with the same shit. Poor guy, he probably read it wrong or something. 

“What the fuck you looking at?” Iggy had remarked, trying to stare me down. 

Despite the fact I was in crucial pain, I decided to test the guy a little. He looked as if he was on the 'side, and it wasn't fate that he reminded me of one of my brothers. Knowing my father, he probably was the spawn of my family generation. I looked at his wristband, it was scribbled terribly but that wasn't a surprise with the low literacy rate in Chicago;  _ Iggy Maguire – some stupid eye Cancer that I can't fucking spell. _ I remember smirking, wincing at the stupid, aching pain in my leg that never seemed to go away. Stupid fucking Cancer. “More than you are.” 

Strangely enough, just as obvious as friendships were, that's when me and Iggy had our first fight. Fists, kicks, punches in the guts. Somehow, that's how we became best-friends. 

Now, do this for me, fast forward a couple of years. Maybe five or so. Iggy was one week from loosing his other eye and me, well, I have one working leg and one robotic thing that was a real fucking nuisance while trying to walk up the porch steps. Pathetic, I know. Me and Iggy had formed some weird, take-out, friendship that we literally used to bitch about hospitals, the ICU, stupid fucking support groups that required nothing but depressing stories that reflected my fear of Oblivion. 

My phone buzzed from beside me at  _ nine  _ in the fucking morning. Now, if you know me, or my family there was one rule you must learn; you do not mess up my fucking sleep, even if you're offering a case of beer and a ever-lasting joint. You just don't. If you want to get stabbed, then yeah, go ahead, but you asked for it. I picked up my phone, ready to kill a fucker, “I swear to fucking God, you're dead.” 

A cackle, I know well, echoed through the phone like some fucking crazed patient that got let out too early and decided phoning me up at  _ nine  _ in the fucking morning would be brilliant. “Good morning, sunshine, the Earth says hello.” Iggy laughed against the speaker. 

I grumble. A normal sound that effectively left my mouth on a daily basis. “Fuck Earth, let me sleep.” 

“Get the fuck up.” Iggy demanded, like he was my fucking keeper or something. “You're coming to Support group with me in thirty minutes.” 

Since when did Iggy  _ actually  _ attend those? “I'd rather die.”  _ Oh,  _ it wasn't that sad that I was dying anyway, might as well throw in an ironic phrase just to get out of it. 

Iggy snorted, as if dying was a funny joke you found within a Christmas cracker. Death was only funny if it involved zombies and machine guns that fired a rage of a hundred feet. “Man, you  _ are  _ dying now get the fuck up.” 

I roll over in my bed, my fake leg getting tangled in the sheets. “No.” 

“Mickey, I swear to fucking Go-

“Fuck off, _no.”_ I groaned, pinching at the bridge of my nose. My head was fucking pounding, my leg aching like a bitch, I wasn't prepared to face a circle of dying kids that wanted to share their numerous, positive stories that were literally _bullshit._ How could anyone be optimistic about dying? It might be relief from all the ongoing pain of shitty drugs and boring doctor appointments, but if you're not remembered, how was it useful? 

My head rushes through with the dreaded consciousness that I wished would just fuck the fuck off. “Man, In case you forgot about my fucked up leg, and my pills that literally are jammed down my throat, I'm in fucking remission. I have better things to do than talk about my feelings in a circle in the heart of fucking Jesus. Fuck Jesus, he doesn't have to deal with  _ my  _ shit.” 

Iggy lets out a sigh. Always a sigh. “Better things to do? Mick, I'm your  _ only  _ friend, stop bullshitting me and come pick me up.” 

Why am I best-friends with this fuckhead? “Learn how to drive, asshole.” 

“I think it's technically illegal to let a blind person drive.” 

I didn't give a shit about law. I'm  _ dying  _ not trying to rob a bank and take off to the Bahamas in order to make a life for myself. “I'm not going to the most boring and  _ depressing  _ thing in my whole existence. Now,  _ fuck  _ off.” 

“Come on, man. I heard Cancer has it perks with the ladies.” Iggy whines, and I could feel him rolling his working blue eye, the other staying creepily in place. “Have some Solidarity.” 

I scoff.  _ This  _ asshole believes I'm capable of solidarity? I don't have a good bone in my body. Even my leg knew that, that's why he left. “I ain't giving you shit, you're a dick.” I sit up against my headboard, trying to look through my blurred eyes, before grabbing the full pack of smokes from my night-stand, taking one out and placing it between my lips. 

I go to grab my lighter – then I remember;  _ It's a metaphor, remember?  _

“Some prick took my copy of Mass Effect last _year_ and he's _still_ not played it.” I replied acidly, trying to control my cool, because _seriously_ that game was my life for three months of my Cemo. It was the only thing that actually kept me sane other than Jeopardy. 

“Come with me and I'll give you the game back, deal?” 

I sigh, I needed more than that. Afterall, that game  _ was  _ my life. “I want interest.” 

I can almost hear Iggy's grunt from the other side. It was easy to wind the guy up, and it was even  _ easier  _ to get him to do things. Good thing I'm dying otherwise this wouldn't work. 

“ _Fine._ I'll buy take-out too.” Iggy gives in, almost completely, like usual. “You gonna come?” 

Did I really want to go somewhere that death is  _ always  _ the topic of conversation? I knew I was dying, I knew that one day this would all be over and I'd be a distant memory. But that's death. It's cold, its bloody, and more than anything it was pointless. “No.” 

“ _Micccccccccckey.”_ Iggy whines down the phone, as if whimpering. 

It was support group for fucks sakes. 

Unfortunately, Mickey had literally  _ nothing  _ to do, other than listen to his sister bitch about her knew man as if she was in love. Even the word makes me physically feel sick. Eight hours later, after my bitching became boring and I rang Iggy with news that made him go crazy with happiness, I was sitting in a shitty, cold, church basement that smelt like wet dog and three-day old kebabs. I was slouched in some itchy-ass chair that creaked as I bobbed my fake leg. I sat beside Iggy, scowling towards the smiles that etched across the faces of sick kids.  _ Smiling,  _ God, did that even exist anymore. I don't think I've ever smiled in my life. 

It reminded me of all the pep talks Doctor's would give me;  _ You can get through it.  _ They told you that so you feel better, somehow sending a weird toxin into your body that made you believe it. The thing was, we were all side effects of life. We were all chosen to die and for some reason others were picked to go sooner. For that, I might be a little grateful. Instead of a wristband that didn't come off for days, we had some shitty little name tags – I ripped mine off. The guy wrote  _ Michael,  _ Iggy had laughed his ass off, nearly popping out his fake eye. I was mortified. If I was going to go to this shitty, piece of crap I wanted my  _ own  _ god-damn name. 

God forbid if I wanted to be in control of something in my life. 

I scan the room, cracking my bruised knuckles as each face got even more irritating.  _ Hi, I'm Eddie. I've been shitting into some colostomy bag, here want to see? It might make you believe that even dying is a bag of fucking shit.  _ See? Bullshit. That's what this was. A great big bag of shit. 

The group leader, annoying fucker with a cheesy smile that made me want to vomit, was rambling about being close, and being in the literal heart of Jesus.  _ Fuck this.  _ I didn't feel closer, I just felt like  _ Craig with ball cancer  _ was breathing down my neck. This wasn't the  _ heart  _ of anything, I was just waiting for the Grim Reaper to walk in and take my other leg. 

I sat and watched the shit-show commence; a group of strangers all smiling and fidgeting with their hands as the hideous silence came through the room.  _ Craig  _ was one breath away from me running the hell out of there. 

“ _Okay,_ I'm Ted, your Support Group leader.” Ted spoke out. God, his voice was annoying. Not as annoying as Iggy smirking like a prick. Ted was smiling like this was a victory parade, like they had won the Super Bowl or some shit. _Fuck you Ted._

He claps his hands together.  _ Fucking Prick with his cheery attitude, he did know we were all dying, right?  _ “I think it would be best to start with--” 

The wide doors opened, cutting Ted's words off – Thank God. It was followed by a squeak of wheels, a clang of metallic that sounded even more dreadful than Ted's introduction of the heart of Jesus. I wanted to laugh, I really did, it was kind of funny that Ted was getting totally into it and some kid was ready to balls it up. Speaking of balls,  _ Craig needed to back the hell off.  _ I could literally smell his breakfast in his breath. I hate eggs. 

It seemed a little symbolic, and hardly unexpected, when my eyes fixed to a small oxygen tank rolling across the carpet, right over Jesus' face.  _ Take that, fucker.  _ One of the wheels was going off else-where – god, it wasn't the only one that didn't want to be here – and the sides were all scratched and roughed up with dents and crayon scribbles. I followed the wire of the tank, willing to find out who the poor fucker was that had to drag that thing around with him. The wire led up to a nose-piece that was attached to some redhead with a dorky, embarrassed smile, freckles splattered against his cheeks and down his bare arms that were exposed against his pale, white skin, and a freakish look in his eye that I  _ knew  _ was irritation. 

My dick didn't twitch. Not one bit. Okay, it might have done but  _ really,  _ Cancer had its perks but it didn't give me the chance to grow back a leg so I looked normal enough to approach the guy. The redhead nodded towards Ted –  _ Regular –  _ I tell myself. God, when all hope was going up, this guy had to be one of those boring fuckers that  _ loved  _ talking about feelings. 

The guy took a seat directly opposite, resting his tank beside him, clutching the wire as if it was helping him throughout the torture of Ted's voice and boring stories. Ted goes on, my focus falters, I can't listen to stories of  _ strong, inspiring  _ people that died just months ago. Instead, I chose to look at the boy that just stepped in, smirking towards his uninterested expression that matched what I felt. His lean fingers,  _ that looked really fucking soft – keep it cool, Milkovich -,  _ drummed against his black jeans, his mouth reciting words that meant nothing to me. He was weird. Really fucking weird. He looked freakish with his nose-piece and wire that hooked to the heavy-looking tank. I saw his eyes move to the clock behind him, I smirk, amused.  _ Redhead has to be somewhere?  _

I let out a small snort, unintended of course, and only freckles turned around to the noise. Somehow, people were  _ actually  _ enchanted with Ted's words. I slouch a little further, knocking my only working leg against the metal foot of my chair, freckles looks away – his eyes a little flared, but I could see the amusement in his eyes. 

_ Fuck it.  _ I'm dying anyway, I might as well have some fun before I kick the bucket. I keep staring at him, waiting for him to burst, waiting for him to ruin Ted's incredibly boring spiel that made my ears bleed. Through the ongoing bullshit of  _ you can get through this, we all can,  _ I can hear the hiss of the redheads oxygen tank, his laboured breathing a little hitched and a little irritating. The guy turns his head, raising his brow as I licked the corner of my mouth.  _ Yeah, I laughed at you.  _ In some wondrous action, the guy didn't seemed bothered. 

If anything, he seemed to like my annoying, purposeful smirk that I use to piss people off. 

I smirk wider, wiggling my brows to lure his attention. He was kinda hot. For someone who was side effect of dying, you know, he wasn't  _ that  _ bad for a support group regular. He raises his eyebrow. I grin a little more. He rolls his eyes, sighing aloud before he looked away again. 

_ Well, this was fun. More fun that Ted's ridiculous motivation march that did absolutely nothing -  _

Soon enough, Ted came back from the his background noise, voice loud as he addresses Iggy like a child in a playground. “Iggy, why don't we start with you? You mentioned that you're preparing for something tough next week?” 

_ Tough?  _ Was this guy fucking serious? He was acting like Iggy was getting a root-canal not his  _ only  _ working eye removed from his fucking head. I could feel Iggy grow uncomfortable – he really hated speaking out in-front of people – really, I wonder why the hell he even comes to these things,  _ even  _ on my first time being in this shit-hole I know public speaking is an obvious qualification for a group meeting in the heart of Jesus. 

Iggy smacks my shoulder when I cough out a laugh, he stands up and gives everyone a breezy wave that spoke  _ pissed off and ready for a fist fight. “ _ Yeah, urm, hi. I'm Iggy. Some of you may know me, others not so much, but you want any supplies like we-” 

I kick his ankle.  _ Fucking idiot.  _

He coughs up – reminding me instantly of last night and my blood, curdling sick that was left in the bowl of the sink. “ _ Rough,  _ ha, you could say that. I'm having surgery in a week that's obviously going to make me blind.  _ But,  _ hopefully I won't have Cancer anymore. So, er, yeah.” 

Despite the hilarious fact that Iggy actually had to get up and speak, I was proud of the blind fucker. Ted was all smiles and fucking flowers, nodding towards Iggy as if being blind wasn't all bad and that loosing your eyes was like loosing a ball. “We understand your struggle, Iggy. Come on, guys, let him hear it. He needs it.” 

I turn to freckles, he too looks really fucking bored and cringing at the collect voice in the room.  _ “We understand your struggle, Iggy.”  _

I snort. This was fucking hilarious. “You've got to be fucking kidding me.” I mutter to myself, apparently loud enough for Freckles to hear – the kid was sending me some sort of glare mixed with a half-felt smirk. I nod around the room, raising an eyebrow as if to ask the kid:  _ Are they being fucking serious, right now?  _

Freckles snorts again, shaking his head. It's kind of nice actually.  _ Wait, what?  _ I nearly side-track but the kid nods in a way of,  _ Yep.  _

I roll my head against the chair, the clock like a death sentence, getting closer and closer. Then again, that's everyday life for me. I'd rather be coxed up in some fucking hospital than in this place – at-least there I can find some morphine to make life easier. 

Ted's voice swarms back in like a disease. “ _ Oh _ , we have a new member. Let's hear from you.” 

_ Kill me now. Kill me now.  _ I could pray for my leg to ache, or my hip to let out some hideous pain that would get me out of this. I put on a big, plastic smile that only matched Iggy's. The one I usually used before kicking the shit out of buyers that didn't fess or pay up, trying to act hard instead of wanting to curl up into a pathetic ball because your leg doesn't give a shit to stay. I slouch further into the chair –  _ I ain't standing up just to show off my shitty, robotic fucking leg.  _

“Name's Mickey. Mickey Milkovich. You probably heard of me, or you don't, I don't really give a shit whether you do.” I kick my leg back when I hear Iggy snort. Instead, I lock eyes with freckles. “Osteosarcoma.” 

Iggy snorts, whispering over to me. “ _ Surprised  _ you can even pronounce that.” Dick. 

I kick him again. The others looked more than worried, fuck them though, I didn't want to be here anyway. Might as well make the most of this shit-hole. “I've been in shitty remission for a year, but a certain  _ asshole  _ is going through impending blindness and unfortunately can't drive here himself.  _ So,  _ thankyou Iggy for opening my eyes to the  _ literal heart of Jesus.”  _

“Dick.” Iggy laughs. Everyone looks more than uncomfortable. That's my work done for the day. 

Ted looked a little scared.  _ Good.  _ He clears his throat and sends me somesort of creepy smile that made me want to hurl in the heart of Jesus.  _ I just really fucking hate that carpet.  _ As a crippled, virgin, diseased fuck up with one working leg and a pack of smokes to my name, I believed that's all I had going for me. I'm pretty proud of my progress in being  _ more  _ of a jerk. 

“So, Mickey, how are you feeling?” Ted asks, waving over to me. 

_ Anymore questions? How about; how long did it take for you to try shove your fake leg up Iggy's ass? Or, how far can you run without tripping over your own, dead leg? _

God, Ted needed to back the fuck off. When I look at freckles, his green eyes a little closer, I wonder whether trying to impress him was a good idea. “Me? Fuck, I'm fine. Really good actually.” I rake my hand through my hair, a little awkward at the fact freckles was smiling now. “Life as a cripple  _ is _ ... let's say crippling. My sister will have debts until she dies, but hey, I get to keep in shape kicking this big heap of shit around.” I lift my leg up, pulling back my sweats to reveal my ugly, fake leg that I really fucking hated the sight of. 

“That's brilliant.” 

I nod, smiling falsely. “Yep. I'm blinded with happiness.” 

Iggy kicks my fake leg, snapping. “Fuck you, asshole.” 

All I can do is laugh. Iggy was so easy to wind up. I look back to freckles as the introductions follow and follow, like a dead drip of water from a broken tap. Craig was sixteen with testicular Cancer, and he was self-conscious that he'll never be able to reproduce.  _ Well, with a breath like that don't count your wishes.  _ Lisa had stage three colon Cancer, she was scared that it might kill her before prom night at her schoolchild.  _ Prom was shit anyway.  _ There was even a kid that looked like he was literally dying in his seat as he introduced himself and his condition, he wouldn't be here next week. I wouldn't either. But that's for another reason.– they all acted like support group was the most important experience they had in their lives. 

Obviously they had never watched Jeopardy. 

Soon enough, the line of boring introductions lead up to freckles. In a struggle, the kid stands up, hand pressed against the handle of his tank. Poor fucker. I can stand straighter than that and I have one working leg.  _ Be nice, you like this guy, remember?  _

Freckles speaks. “Ian Gallagher.” Freckles had a name. A generic, typical name, but that name usually fit to and middle-aged man with five kids, a pompous family, a group of colleagues that he loves to boss around as he cries internally at his boring life. For the first time,  _ Ian  _ wasn't a generic name. 

Ian fiddles with the wire of his tank. “I'm seventeen. Thyroid, and metastases in the lungs.” He smacks his chest. I'm starting to think he did that so I would instantly glance at the strangely toned chest hidden beneath his white shirt. Ian locks his eyes with mine. “I'm okay.” 

_ Who was this guy?  _ How could he just say I’m _ okay  _ as if this whole thing was a breezier. Then again, he might be right. We were all as okay as we'll ever be. 

After an hour of listening to Craig cry over his lost ball bag, his breath more intense than a dead rat in a sewer, I was ready to kill Iggy for dragging me to this chamber of depressing torture. We had fifteen minutes left of this shit and I was ready to just get up and leave but Freckles was staring me down like a cow in a slaughter house – I wasn't sure whether that was good or bad thing, either way it did something to my insides that I didn't want to acknowledge. 

_ Eddie, eighteen, shits into a bag and scared of dying...we acknowledge your struggle, Eddie. We do.  _

All I could acknowledge was the fact I was thriving to punch Iggy in the throat and force him to buy me a Chinese for my  _ struggle  _ of sitting through this shit. It was literally hell. If I hear another sob story, or tale of going to the doctors and finding out the Cancer is getting worse, I might just punch myself in the throat. It would cause a little excitement, atleast. 

Suddenly, Ted was at me like a mole digging for information. “Mickey. Let's get something out of you, you haven't spoken since we started.” I wondered whether Ted was there just to make us all uncomfortable, or if he was there just to bite me in the fucking ass and make me look like a twat  _ just  _ so Iggy got entertainment out of it. Maybe Ted thought I should be on cable TV. 

“On the train of fear, let talk about _your_ fears? What are you afraid of?” 

_ Me?  _ Mickey Milkovich being scared? There were a few things I could say. The fact that Iggy had not brought my god-damn game and my excitement to play my life-time saver was in the toilet. Or the fact that my dad would beat my ass if he knew I was here – maybe the fact that back then, he would beat the shit out of us  _ just  _ for talking.  _ Fuck that.  _ These sick kids didn't want to hear about my sob story, nor do they want to hear that my fists do come in handy at times. I wasn't afraid of dying. No. I was said of one thing, just one – and maybe spiders.

I stand up.  _ Why did I stand up?  _ I chew at my fingernails, wincing as one bleeds from the side. Once again I find myself staring at that redheaded asshole. He's grinning.  _ Glad he's fucking enjoying this. Dick.  _ “Oblivion.” 

Ted raises his brow, a little shocked. “Oblivion?” 

I nod. I was scared of Oblivion. It was a scary, big thing that never escaped my mind even when Iggy would try and convince me that it wasn't a big deal. “Yeah, Oblivion. The fact that one day we're all going to die and evaporate into nothing, that the human race had done so much shit and it won't matter.” Despite my fear, my voice is as bland as plain pasta. “Is it selfish that I want my life or my dead to  _ mean  _ something?” 

Ted nods. I knew he didn't understand. “Anyone want to give Mickey any advice?” 

I scan the room, proud of my confession. I wasn't one to speak out loud but, boy, that did feel good just to get that out there. I felt like some preacher, telling the mass of people that they  _ have  _ to make their life mean something. Despite the fact that I wasn't doing anything to make my life special, I still believed it. 

“I do.” Ian raises his hand. _Wait, what?_ His soft voice floated across the room and I swear I felt an unknown tinge in my chest. Hopefully it would go. 

Ted smiles wide, his eyes gleaming creepily as Ian struggled to stand with the interference of his tank wire. Poor sod. “Ian, what a surprise.” 

I stay standing, I wasn't going to let this redheaded kid put me down. 

The whole room turned their heads towards him. Ian's face blushed up like a grown tomato, all red and sharp at his cheekbones. He clears his throat, before looking at me challengingly. “I think that being scared of Oblivion if ridiculous. One day iconic people like Shakespeare, Martin Luther, Stephen King,  _ even  _ Cleopatra will be forgotten. Stop acting like Oblivion is this big  _ unknown.  _ It's reality, it's there. Deal with it, because sooner or later our times will be up and Oblivion, well, it's inevitable.” 

The room goes silent – filled with people that obviously didn't give a shit, nor knew what we were exchanging about. Even Iggy was kicking at my foot, trying to get me to explain what the hell Ian was rambling on about. A slow smile edges across my face. Cute and funny. “Well,  _ damn,  _ aren't you a smart-ass?” 

Ian tilts his head, shrugging casually. “No. I just live in reality.” 

For the first time, I'm speechless. I wasn't sure whether to charge at the guy or kiss the shit out of his chapped, cut lip.  _ Wait, kiss?  _ I have no idea what's going on, but I sit down and rethink my life choices. Fuck Ian and his stupid opinions. Fuck Ian and his cute-ass face and freckled fatigue. Fuck Oblivion.  _ And  _ fuck Iggy for bringing him here in the first place. 

I didn't go along with the closing prayer. I don't believe in a higher power, nor would I be deluded enough to believe God would help a gay, thug, Southside kid. Within my atheist thoughts, my eyes end up trailing back over to Ian across from me. Surprisingly, he's not involving himself in the torture of prayer either. He wasn't  _ that  _ bad. Still annoying though. I end up smirking at him, challenging him to speak up, instead he just flips me off, giving me a smug smile. 

The eye-fucking stand-off doesn't last long, only until everyone was dismissed finally. 

I'm still a little curious about the redheaded dick. I don't know why, or how, I want to know more about him. I just do. I grab Iggy by the arm and drag him over. I nod towards Ian who was too invested in his tank to care. “He a regular?” 

Iggy shrugs, looking over to Ian, his face suppressing into a frown. “Mickey, no. Just no.” 

_ Was it that obvious?  _ “What?” I laugh. 

Iggy cocks his head, instantly reading through me like a pane glass window. “You're not fucking the guy with half a lung. Just no.” 

I laugh, genuinely amused at Iggy's confidence in my efforts. “I have no idea what you're talking about. Maybe I want to beat the shit out of the guy, how about that, huh?” 

Iggy rolls his eyes. Well, eye. 

I snort. “Oh, man, I love it when you roll your eyes. One goes to the shop and other stays at home.” 

I respect the fact that I could say those things, even if Iggy looked like he wanted to shoot my kneecaps off in one blow. “Fuck off, you dick. You walk like a hunch, so shut the hell up.” He pushes at my chest and makes me stumble. I just laugh when Iggy's eyes do that thing all over again.

“Fine. Go. Just don't be a asshole.” Iggy slaps my chest, as if he was a soccer mom sending her son off to Sunday school. I find myself boosted with confidence all over again; I wasn't afraid of anything, even if Oblivion was inevitable. 

I roll my shoulders back, clicking my neck as I prepare to face the redhead that pushed me to my limits and made me look like a twat in-front of a group of optimists that believed the higher power would save them from chemotherapy. 

I walk over to Ian, he's fixing up his tank or something, grunting through his teeth when his wire continuously gets stuck against the button of his jacket. I scoff, this kid was literally the most adorable, freakish, alien I had ever seen. “You know,” I started, “You shouldn't be such an ass.” 

Ian looks up, not the slightest affected by my intimidating tone. Which is very surprising, from what I knew, everyone was scared of me. Or atleast my last name. 

Ian's lips pursed into a thin line, the only indication that he fully acknowledged my presence. “ _ Well,  _ you shouldn't have ridiculous fears.” I could see the tug at the side of his lips; I'm not sure whether to be annoyed or flattered that this guy thought I was amusing. 

“It's not ridiculous.” 

“Yeah, sure.” _God,_ this guy was fucking annoying. Ian adjusts his nose-piece with nerves, from what I guess. _Was he nervous over me?_ Fuck that. “It's a little weird, that's all. You don't seem the type to talk about Oblivion and the meaning of life.” 

I'm a little offended. What does a person have to look like to want to know the meaning of their life? I know I'm a fucking asshole but I'm not that bad. I'm not bad enough to believe life doesn't having a meaning and death was just a part of life we had to live with. “Don't seem the type?” 

“Yeah,” Ian answers softly, biting at his lip. “Well, uh, I don't know what type of person you are. You sit there talking about what terrifies you with a shit-eating grin on your face.” 

I smirk. “Well, you know what they say.  _ Everyone smiles with that invisible gun to their head.”  _ I shrug, walking slowly with Ian in tow, passing Ted and not bothering to give a grateful nod. Support Group was shit, why would I be thankful for the most boring hour of my life. 

Ian stops, narrowing his eyes, confused. Idiot. “Wait, what?” 

My jaw dropped.  _ Really?  _ “Chuck Palahniuk?  _ Fight Club?  _ Don't tell me that a nerd like you hasn't read the best fucking book in history?” Ian gives me googly eyes. “ _ Really?  _ Oh my god.” 

“What? I don't get it.” Ian squints. I can hear his breathing through his nose-piece. It's a little comforting in a weird way. 

“I should drop kick you _right here_ for what you just said.” 

Ian eyes me defensively, he looks offended which just makes me smirk more. “ _ Sorry  _ that I'm not involved with the  _ best fucking book in history,  _ I like weird books. Unpopular ones that only sell a few in the space of a couple of weeks.” He gives his tank a sharp tug, flipping me off as he made for the door. 

I rush over. I have no idea why. “Hey, hey. Stop.” I grab at his shoulder. Shit, It's toned. How the fuck can a sick kid be  _ this  _ built? Seriously? Did he work out between appointments or what. Ian turns harshly, his face heated before mine. I smile weakly, “I wasn't saying you were any less of a smart-ass because you haven't read  _ Fight Club.  _ Actually I'l- shit wait a minute.” 

I see Iggy and pull against his arm. My half-blind best-friend turns with narrowed eyes. I smack the back of his head, “I swear to fuck, Ig, you owe me big time for the most boring and depressing waste of my fucking time.” 

Iggy shrugs. “Fine. Just after I see to this, yeah?” He nods over to Lisa. Great. It's like we're recruiting sick kids and bringing them home. Hey, we could even make our own version of Fight Club ;  _ Cancer Club for assholes with large opinions.  _

“Yeah. Okay. Go and stick your hand up Lisa's skirt. I'm out of here.” I start walking up the stairs. Ian's slow behind me but I couldn't shout at him for the fact his lungs busted and left him in a great deal of fucking torture. I'm not that twisted. 

When we reach outside, Ian steps besides some bench and looks down at his watch. Up close, he isn't bad, not at all. His freckles are all over his face, over his nose, around his cheeks, even down the bone of his fingers. “ _ So,”  _ I break the silence. “You know, they made a really fucking good film adaptation of  _ Fight Club.  _ I mean, Brad Pitt is literally the shit.” 

“I'll get my brother to copy it for me.” Ian sighed, trying to catch his breath still from the stairs. 

I did feel sorry for the kid – I might have one leg, but I'm happy I don't nearly die everytime I walk down a flight of stairs. I shake my head. I had no idea why I thought of doing this, but there was something about this kid. Something I couldn't put my finger on. I want to push him away, I really do, I've been taught to push away good things before I infect them with my bad. I take a breath, feeling a little guilty that I could do it perfectly and Ian was struggling. “Man, you could come over mine or whatever. I've got a free house.” 

“To your  _ house-”  _

I correct myself. I could hear Iggy's laugh echoing in my mind. “To watch the film. It's really fucking good.” 

“But I just met you,” Ian wheezes a little, still struggling to breathe. “You could be serial killer or some shit. I don't know, when you say  _ film  _ it could be a euphemism for  _ stabbing you in the throat.” _

I move his tank wire before it gets caught on his jacket, and for some reason I get a glare in return.  _ Oh, if that's what you get for being nice.  _ I sigh, grinning. “Oh, I assure you, I'm definitely a serial killer.” 

The parking lot was now empty, the last few stragglers left waiting for their parents to join them and bring them home. It was quiet, something I wanted for a while after the hell of Ted's doodling voice for an hour, or it would have been if it wasn't for hideous sucking sounds that came from  _ my  _ end of the parking lot. It was Iggy; what a fucking surprise. He had Lisa pinned to the wall of the church. 

“I understand that he won't be able to see much longer, but  _ seriously  _ what the fuck _ ? _ ” I shake my head, watching the two fumble around against the church wall. It was fucking gross. I felt sick. I turn back to Ian, finding myself distracted by the sucking sounds. “Hey, your ride here yet?” 

Ian shakes his head, finally steady, staring with a slight sort of distaste at the writhing silhouettes in the corner. “Ugh, I'm all for making out, but  _ that  _ is fucking hideous.” 

I chuckle. When do I chuckle? Ever? “Man, you should of seen the chick he brought back the other night. Fucking horrific.” I pull out my pack of Marlboro Reds out of my black jacket, and perch the cylinder between my lips. 

Ian's face twisted in anger, his face changing quickly from distaste to revulsion. “Are you fucking serious?  _ Really?” _ I turn. What the hell. Ian slaps his hands on his legs. “What, do you think that makes you look badass or some shit? Huh? God, you've completely ruined this!” 

“Ruined it?” I ask, smiling crookedly, amused. “Completely?” 

Ian shakes the handle of his tank. “ _ yes,  _ you completely and utterly ruined this whole thing. I meet this rather cute idiot, with a slightly cranky attitude, but obviously his thuggish humour and straight-forward personality made up for that – but  _ no,  _ you had to fucking ruin it. Ugh, you had Cancer Mickey, or you still have it, either way you're giving your money to some shitty Russian Roulette game to get  _ more  _ Cancer because apparently guys are hotter when they have a tube of Tobacco inbetween their lips. Well, listen here asshole, lung Cancer fucking  _ sucks. _ ” Ian's grips against his oxygen tank was white-knuckled, and for a second I was almost worried that I might have to fight the redheaded, freckled, skinny, lanky idiot that wore a stupid white shirt. 

“ _ Cute? _ ” I glare. Out of all things, I wasn't fucking that. “I ain't fucking cute.” 

Ian gritted his teeth, turning his tank with a exaggerated huff. Fucking drama Queen. “I know that now!” he fumed, failing to storm off like a steam train. I grab his wrist, pulling him back. 

“Ay, you fucking idiot. I haven't even lit it.” I wave my hand around my unlit cigarette, trying to prove my point about the whole thing. 

“I don't give a shit.” 

I grab his thin wrist again. I have no idea why I was doing this, nor why I wanted to. I felt I had to explain myself to this kid. “Listen, right, hear me out.” Ian stops, giving me the time of day, still flaring and not ready to listen to my ungraded bullshit. I grab my cigarette. “I don't ever light one, right. Yeah, I used to, but not now.” 

Ian tilts his head, he's confused. “Then why do you-” 

I place it back in my lips. “They can't hurt you if you don't light them. See?” I wave my hands around it. “You put something with the power to kill you right between your teeth, but you don't give it the power to do the killing.  _ Bam,  _ the system is broken.” 

Ian's jaw dropped, his eyes squinting towards the whole thing.  _ Still?  _ He still didn't fucking get it? There's a look of disbelief in his eyes. “So, it's a --” 

“Yeah, it's a fucking metaphor.” I explain. God. 

Ian scoffs, not impressed by my wiggling metaphorical substitute. “That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard,  _ but  _ it's a little interesting that you don't fear death.” 

“I've always hoped death feared me.” I tell him. It's always been a thing I was proud of. Not being scared of the unknown, the darkness, the fact that one day we would be no longer. I lived in a house of hell until the age of thirteen, death wasn't much different. My smoke dangles in my lips as I speak, “Man, you still want to Brad Pitt in action, or what?” 

Ian hesitates at first, I can see it, his eyes all shy and his fingers clutched tightly against the handle of his tank. To be honest, I wasn't quite sure what I felt at this point. I hadn't done this before. Never. Not without the fear of my dad storming through. It was just a movie,  _ just a fucking movie.  _

Ian walks over from the curb, and for a second I thought he had left, that he realised what a dick I was and didn't even want to talk to me again. Surprisingly, Ian does the opposite. He knocks onto the window of a shit, blue car, a curly haired guy was sat in the drivers seat, a dark-skinned little boy beside him. 

“Een!” The little boy shouts and I'm not sure what relation he is to Ian yet. 

“Hey, buddy.” Ian's soft voice echoes through the parking lot. It causes something in my chest that I don't really want to address. I watch, stood back, I didn't want to intrude, and I didn't want to look like Ian's boyfriend who'd happily meet the family. Ian leans against the frame of the car window. “Tell Fiona I'm not back for dinner, I'm going to watch a movie with Mickey Milkovich.” 

The curly-haired guy – who seriously looked like he wanted to fucking stab me – looked me over once or twice. I glare, shrugging my hands in my pockets, rocking against my feet. 

This is really fucking awkward. 

It's just a fucking movie. Surely showing some sick kid, from Support group, Brad Pitt topless and all sweaty was purely  _ innocent.  _


End file.
